


Five Things Maggie Simpson Never Said

by soundingsea



Category: The Simpsons
Genre: Female Protagonist, Multi, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2006, recipient:voltairescribbles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-25
Updated: 2006-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-06 00:09:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soundingsea/pseuds/soundingsea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zombies, lesbians, omgwtfpolarbear, mortal enemies, mobsters: five futures that never happened in Springfield. Featuring Maggie Simpson in a speaking role!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Things Maggie Simpson Never Said

**Author's Note:**

  * For [voltaireontoast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voltaireontoast/gifts).



> Spoilers through Season 18. Thanks: to spiralleds, sunnyd_lite, and ros_fod for beta-reading this at various stages, and special recognition to ironchefjoe for beta-reading with his encyclopedic Simpsons knowledge. All mistakes are my own.

###### one

Gas masks. Flight suits. WWII-era patches. Maggie scanned the shelves at Herman's Military Antiques with a growing sense of panic, tossing items into piles of Useless and Beyond Useless. Weren't these places supposed to be a survivalist's dream? As far as she could tell, the only dream she'd be fulfilling here was one of a kick-ass Halloween costume. And nobody was going to be celebrating Halloween anymore; not when every day was Halloween.

"Maggie, I'm hungry," Ralph said, tugging at her sleeve. Great; he'd gotten bored with her pacifier necklace already. Ralph would definitely win a Most Babyish Young Adult pageant, if pageants still existed. Well, at least the pacifier had worked for a little while. Maggie smiled, remembering how much she'd loved that thing as a baby. And it made for a unique accessory now, though she considered her sawed-off to be the real Pacifier. Quieted zombies down, anyhow. 'Course, she couldn't use it on Ralph. He was still human.

Damn. Ralph was crying and clutching his stomach. Well, they were out of MREs, and she wasn't about to stroll down to the Kwik-E-Mart. Not with Zombie Apu attacking every poor sucker who tried to loot the place. At that thought, she glanced reflexively at the boarded-up windows. Light trickled in, but the boards held fast.

She rifled through the camo a few more times. Unless she needed a novelty belt made of spent ammo casings, this was pointless. Nothing here was remotely helpful, and that included Ralph Wiggum. What a companion. Just the person you'd tap in event of zombie apocalypse, right? But he was the only one left.

Wait! Seeing a promising glint of metal, Maggie toppled an entire display rack of paintball supplies. Flanders' ill-fated "Paint &amp; Pray" campaign hadn't done much to stop the zombies except make them more colorful, but it had been a boon to places like this. And hey, under the worthless weekend-warrior crap was finally something for the Useful category.

Woohoo! She pumped her fist in the air. Ammo. Score. She squatted down and grabbed a couple of small red boxes. Explosive-tipped would make for some excellent head-explodey.

"These gumballs are squishy," Ralph said from the floor. Maggie suppressed a giggle at the sight of blue and yellow paint oozing from the corners of his mouth. Considering some of the things Ralph ate, this was probably health food.

Ammo, though! Cases and cases of it! She could probably hold off the zombies long enough for Ralph to fill her bike's tank. He really liked siphoning; what had he said? "Tastes like road trip." Yeah, she didn't want to know. Get the bike running again, and they could maybe make it to Capitol City. Supposed to be better there. Outpost of civilization, potable water. While she was thinking of it, Maggie grabbed the last few iodine tablets in the bottom of a bin.

A board rattled, and Maggie started. Scrambling to her feet, she grabbed her sawed-off and started to load it. (Leaving a loaded gun around Ralph was just asking for trouble.) She had just about pulled it up to aim it when a boot kicked the board in.

Attached to the boot, by way of a body, was a familiar face. Boot, body, and face all climbed through the new and rather unfortunate hole in her fortifications. The man shook himself off and then tried a strained smile. "Maggie Simpson, as I live and breathe!"

She aimed the shotgun directly at his head.

The guy spread his arms wide. "Remember me? Carl Carlson? And no, I'm not a brain-eating zombie. Wasn't kidding about the living. Also the breathing."

"I can hold my breath!" Ralph offered, proceeding to do just that.

"Hey, kid," Carl said to Ralph, before turning his attention back to Maggie. "I know what you're thinking. But I got out. Lenny, though..." His face twisted in remembered pain. "I did what I could for him."

Ralph collapsed onto the floor between Maggie and Carl, his face blue. Once down, though, his breathing returned to normal. Stepping over him, Maggie lowered her weapon and put her hand on Carl's shoulder. The whole ugliness, with the French and the neutron bomb and how her dad had been the first to change, and why hadn't they realized there was something wrong with him: she could see all the horror reflected back at her from Carl's eyes.

She spoke in a low tone so as not to wake Ralph, her voice quavering. "I know how it is. My whole family... I did the same thing."

 

###### two

August meant long, lazy days and twilights that stretched out into forever. Floodlights in the parking lot of the Kwik-E-Mart created long shadows. Crickets sang in ever-repeating patterns, and winged critters of every sort buzzed importantly in the growing dusk.

Maggie didn't much care about the bugs or the late hour, though, because she was doing what every hot-blooded American teenager did the second they acquired a driver's license: picking up her sweetheart for a night of makeout fun.

Dad had been so sweet about Maggie getting her license; he'd declared that a teenaged girl needed a convertible, and had taken a hacksaw to the old car. Mom would have objected, but she and Lisa were in Paris. Bart, of course, had helped Dad. Destruction was her brother's middle name.

9 o'clock, and the Kwik-E-Mart doors slid open. Well, "doors". Apu had replaced the glass doors with transparent Kevlar back at the turn of the century in a wave of crime-prevention frenzy. And who cared about that, because the cutest Nahasapeemapetilon was embracing her.

Maggie nibbled on Priya's neck and was rewarded with a giggle. "You make me crazy," Priya said. "I'm supposed to be helping one of my annoying brothers with the store, so Manjula won't be expecting me at home yet. Let's go."

Instead of heading for the car, Maggie twirled Priya around and pressed her against an ancient hulk of a Squishee machine rusting on the side of the building. Knee between Priya's thighs and hands roaming to uncharted territories, Maggie slipped her tongue into Priya's mouth.

Priya kissed her back, and then sighed. "I wish we sold Squishees here. The Shelbyville Stop-And-Rob has them, but my dad gets mad and says 'Out of the question!' when we ask."

Like iced beverages mattered, but Maggie was far too busy kissing Priya to argue.

"Priya! Where are you, you deceitful wench?" The voice came over the PA system, left over from one of the times Apu tried selling gas. Always had an explosive ending, but he kept trying.

"It's Gheet! Quick, let's get out of here." Priya jumped into the convertible, and Maggie slipped languidly into the driver's seat. Warm and tingly and oh-so-sweet; this was just exactly what she needed. Life was good.

Smiling at her girlfriend, Maggie gunned the engine and shouted over the roar, "Next stop, Inspiration Point!"

 

###### three

No matter how nice the hotel, they all looked the same in the back hallways. Scuff marks where carts had disagreements with walls, the faint scent of dirty laundry, ever-cheery posters about OSHA and labor unions. And look, a whiteboard with "71 days since a lost time injury". Higher than usual.

More stars in a guidebook generally meant that the lobby had a higher grade of carpet. Maggie wasn't sure how many stars the Hotel Pillowmint rated. It was the third hotel in as many nights, and she didn't actually see the lobby: just the dock (with its handy bike lockers) and the harried advance-team rep who came bearing a nasty chicken-salad sandwich she wasn't about to touch. Her security guy, following behind her, was currently licking it off his fingers. Ick.

A whirlwind schedule like this was a natural side effect of any speaking tour with Al Gore. Next month he'd probably start campaigning for Lisa's re-election bid. (Always Vice President, never a bride? No, that wasn't quite right.) Al Gore was the third person in history to be Vice President under two different sitting presidents, and for a wonder he seemed to like being Lisa's understudy even more than being Clinton's.

But campaign-for-prez season hadn't officially started, so right now Maggie and Al were fitting in a quickie Climate Crisis Awareness Month. Al's original Keynote presentation had grown into a sensory-immersion experience, but the hopefully-charismatic speakers still guided the audience through it.

And this particular speaker was running late, hurrying through the hotel a good 45 minutes later than expected. Rush hour in Springfield now ran 24 hours per day, just like everywhere else, but fortunately the bike lanes had moved at a faster clip. Alas, the vibe shower next to the hotel's bike lockers had been on the fritz, delaying Maggie further while she took a time-consuming water-based shower.

As for dinner? Hah. No time. The participants at the 2000 DolYuan per head gala probably got something delicious, but Maggie had passed on her chance. At least this week's security detail could (and did) enjoy it. Lisa's vegetarianism had rubbed off on Maggie, after years of resistance.

Whoa, wait. Speaking of food: untouched cheesecake, straight ahead on a dishes-filled Queen Mary. Not the dirigible, no, but the ubiquitous multi-tiered cart by the same name. And how depressing was it that she knew what those carts were called? Way too much time in hotels.

Maggie reached for the cake, and just as she touched it she heard a plaintive whine. "Lisa Simpson?"

Startled, she jostled the cart and sent it moving. It careened towards the wall and into a familiar-looking blue-haired guy in a uniform. She gasped, but it was too late; the cart crushed him into a contorted mess. And worst of all, her intended cheesecake smacked right into the "71 days", smearing it beyond recognition.

A suit-wearing guy with a nametag saying "Jimbo Jones" appeared out of nowhere. He yelled, "Van Houten!" and then turned to Maggie and her security agent with a sheepish grin. "Sorry, Ma'm. Sir."

A pitiful whimper came from under the Queen Mary. "Tell Lisa that Milhouse said hi, please."

Maggie nodded, not that the poor guy could probably see her, and then headed for the back door of Ballroom C. Just in time; she heard Al's booming voice echoing through the sound system. "And now, please welcome the noted environmental activist and sister to our nation's President, Margaret Simpson!"

Maggie cleared her throat and shifted in her high heels. Looking up into the lights, she walked onto the wobbly stage, smiling at the familiar sight of Al's head in his ornate life-support jar. His robotic exoskeleton took him offstage, and she began her presentation. Slow at first and then building speed, images showed the breakup of the Arctic ice cap. Drawing breath, she spoke.

"When I was nine years old, a polar bear died at my feet."

 

###### four

As an incoming first-year at Springfield U, Maggie was pretty sure she wanted to major in Speech Communication. After all, public relations was her passion. With Bart in his band and Lisa in politics, it seemed only natural. But like everyone else, she had to take her liberal-ed distribution requirements. The undergrad advisor had suggested Women's Chorus as an easy way to fulfill an arts requirement. Today, that brought her to the far end of campus way too late on a Tuesday night.

The sign above the door said, "Soy Pepsi presents the Dewey Largo Memorial Music Hall". Maggie shuddered; the new soy formulation, Pepsi's latest attempt to copy Coke, tasted like edamame. Not a delicious breakfast soda at all!

At class that afternoon, the prof had said they all needed to go to an extra rehearsal tonight; some post-doc had a big choral project which would comprise 40% of their grade for the semester. So here she was. This seemed like far too much work for a two-credit class, but she needed this requirement. Unless, hmm. Note to self: see if it was possible to transfer into Movies For Credit.

Just in case that class was closed, though, in she went, shivering in the drafty hall. Apparently Women's Chorus couldn't perform some music scholar's masterwork on their own, so they had to practice with Men's Chorus.

Couldn't hurt to see if there were any cute guys. Maggie scanned the tenors and the bass section as they all took their seats. Ack! Familiar face, and not in a good way! Gerald Samson had grown into his eyebrows, but his new cuteness was no reason for Maggie to trust her lifelong mortal enemy!

Gerald must have been checking out the girls, because he looked right at Maggie and smiled broadly. The nerve of him, after that incident at senior prom with the chewing gum and the robotic dog! All those hours glaring at him as his pram went by on Evergreen Terrace, and somehow she'd never succeeded in making his head explode by the sheer power of her will. She resolved to try harder.

Before her glare of death could strike him down, the post-doc came in, rustling some papers. The room quieted as he looked around. Maggie realized that she probably should have read the syllabus; Bart would have taken off work at the plant to come see this.

"Hello," the post-doc said, his voice shaking nervously. "I'm Todd Flanders, and this semester the combined Springfield U chorus will be performing my Christian Rock Opera, entitled 'The Fall of Man'. Please pass the folios around; we'll start warmups in a few minutes."

Maggie scanned the words and smiled. The sentiments she saw on the page were just about perfect for serenading one's enemy. When Todd (because there was no way she was going to call him Dr. Flanders) gestured to the sopranos, she looked right at Gerald and belted out the opening challenge.

"I am Eve, temptress. Unwary man, I will lay waste to your cities and bring you to your doom."

 

###### five

Maggie shifted on the hot tar roof of the strip club, uncomfortable in her body armor. She peered across the street at Saint Jerome's, the facade baking in the noonday sun. Wasn't it supposed to rain for Springfield funerals? She was only working this security detail because Fat Tony had been Lisa's father-in-law, and "broiling on a roof for hours" hadn't been part of Michael's pitch.

Not that Lisa would ever find out Maggie'd been here. As far as she knew, Maggie worked for international financiers (and took lots of business trips). Clear sign that Lisa never watched TV: she believed that cover story. Michael knew, he'd always known, that Lisa couldn't handle the ugly side of waste management. Maggie, though? This was in her blood. All Simpson women were good at something. Her skill happened to be in aiming and squeezing a trigger.

Finally the doors of the church opened, and like magic, a little cloud appeared and rain fell on the pallbearers and mourners. Maggie saw Lisa below, black-clad and wearing a veiled hat, holding Michael's arm. They stepped into a limo as Eddie and Lou distributed flags to the cars in the procession.

Off to the cemetery they went, hazards flashing. At least Tony D'Amico had been whacked by natural causes, as he would put it. May he rest in peace. Lisa would be able to comfort Michael; they'd been through it with Homer. Stupid heart disease. Stupid mortality.

"Maybe when this is over, we can spend our paychecks downstairs."

Maggie was jolted from her reverie by sneering Valley Boy tones. She turned her head so Jeremy could see her scorn.

"Why does Michael keep a chick on security detail? What, you a better shot than us all?"

Maggie flicked her eyes to a weathervane on the building across the street. She let off a silenced shot that dealt the weathervane a glancing blow. Here and back and round it went, as did Jeremy's eyes.

"Okay, you can shoot. But ever take out a person? My dad Snake, he's killed so many!"

Best set this fool straight. "First man I ever shot was Monty Burns."


End file.
